Part 7 – The Angel of Aethel

The air in the military command center was cold and sharp with the hum of tactical displays and the grim tension of a losing war. Superwoman stood before General Kaelen. She was a single point of impossible hope in a room consumed by despair.

Kaelen’s demeanor was cold, professional, and utterly condescending. He did not address her by name, only as “the asset.”

“The Hoard has encircled the city of Aethel,” he began, gesturing to a holographic map that showed a bleeding red perimeter around a glowing blue city. “Their numbers are overwhelming. The city’s shields are failing. My troops are pinned down, facing annihilation. Your mission is simple, asset: you are a hammer. Fly in, shatter their siege engines, and break their command structure. Create an opening for my forces to counter-attack. Do not engage the Warlord Xarthos if he is present. Am I understood?” His tone made it clear he was sending a tool to do a job, not a champion to win a war.

“I understand, General,” Sheral said, her voice quiet but steady.

She turned and walked from the command center, leaving the grim-faced officers behind. As she stepped out onto a high balcony overlooking Eldoria, she took a deep breath, embraced the power humming within her, and launched herself into the sky.

Her journey south was a harsh awakening. This was her first time flying over the lands of Lemuria since the war began in earnest. The idyllic, green paradise she remembered from her childhood was gone, replaced by a landscape scarred by the brutality of conflict. She flew over blackened forests, the skeletal remains of trees reaching to the sky like accusing fingers. She saw the smoking ruins of villages, dark stains on the verdant plains. This was the reality she had been shielded from, the world her new power was meant to save. It hardened her resolve, transforming her nervous fear into a cold, determined anger.

She arrived at Aethel, and the sight was worse than she could have imagined. The once-beautiful coastal city was surrounded by a massive, chaotic encampment of The Hoard, a sprawling city of mud, scrap metal, and savage banners. Huge, crude siege engines, monstrous hybrids of barbarian engineering and stolen Lemurian tech, pounded relentlessly against the city’s flickering, failing energy shield. On the walls, she could see the tiny figures of Lemurian soldiers, their silver armor glinting, fighting a desperate, losing battle.

She was a crimson comet descending from the heavens.

The soldiers on both sides stopped for a moment, their battles forgotten, and stared up in stunned confusion. The Lemurians saw a miracle descending from the sun. The Hoard saw an unknown, terrifying omen. No one had ever seen anything like her.

Sheral didn’t hesitate. She remembered Elara’s words—that her kind heart was her true strength. She would not become a butcher like the men she was fighting. She was here to be a savior.

Her first targets were the siege engines. She flew through the first one, a massive catapult powered by a groaning energy core, tearing through its structure with a sound of screaming metal. It collapsed into a heap of useless wreckage. She moved to the next, and the next, a whirlwind of focused, overwhelming force.

The soldiers of The Hoard, recovering from their shock, opened fire. A thousand plasma bolts, the deadly green energy of their stolen weapons, streaked towards her. Remembering her training, she didn’t dodge. She simply hovered in the air, her arms at her sides, and let the barrage wash over her invulnerable form. The energy dissipated against her skin in harmless, glittering sparks.

A wave of pure, primal terror swept through the barbarian ranks. They had never seen a being that could not be harmed. Their shamans had no explanation for this flying, indestructible demon who wore the color of blood.

She descended among them. She was not a killer. She moved with a speed they could barely track, shattering their plasma rifles with a single touch, her blows powerful but precise. She struck the ground with her fist, the shockwave sending a hundred warriors flying through the air, disarmed and stunned but not dead. She was a force of nature, an earthquake and a hurricane in the form of a beautiful, terrifying woman.

On the walls of Aethel, the Lemurian soldiers, who had been on the brink of despair, were filled with a renewed, almost religious fervor. A single, powerful voice cried out, “The Angel of Lemuria!” The cry was taken up by others, their voices rising in a powerful, hopeful roar. They surged forward, launching their own desperate counter-attack into the now-chaotic and terrified ranks of their enemy.

Sheral’s arrival had broken The Hoard’s morale. Their savage charge faltered, then broke completely. They began to fall back, fleeing in a disorganized rout from the crimson angel that had descended upon them. Seeing the opening, General Kaelen’s main force, which had been waiting for just such a chance, charged from the hills, turning the retreat into a slaughter.

The siege was broken.

Sheral hovered high above the battlefield, her body aching with the unfamiliar strain of wielding such immense power, but her red costume was pristine and untouched, a perfect, vibrant symbol against the smoke and ruin below. She watched the last of The Hoard vanish into the forests, feeling the profound relief of victory, tempered by the sight of the battlefield below—the dead and the dying of both sides.

She descended, landing softly on the main wall of Aethel. The Lemurian soldiers didn’t just cheer; they fell to their knees in reverence, their faces filled with an awe usually reserved for the gods.

Far from the city, on a dark, wooded hill overlooking the battlefield, a lone figure watched her through a high-tech spyglass. It was the Warlord Xarthos. He lowered the instrument, his scarred face not showing fear, but a look of intense, analytical interest. He had just witnessed the unveiling of Lemuria’s new queen on the grand, bloody chessboard of their war.

“So,” he whispered to the wind, a cruel, fascinated smile touching his lips. “The old fools in the Council finally did it. They made a god.”